


The Slow Burn

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: All the holidays, Angst, Enjolras the Virgin, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Modern AU, Sex, Slow for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing can be as good as sex because it contains all the promise of the act and little of the risk. Kissing turns on the body, dusts off the brain, nourishes the soul. Kissing is the chicken soup of sex. Grantaire could stay like this all night or forever, curled up with Enjolras on the couch, licking into his mouth. On TV, a Santa Claus is in a wacky situation. Outside, snow is falling fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! I love you all. Can't believe a year's gone by. 
> 
> This one's for barricadeur, soemily, snowshoe, & infierceways. Thanks for being mes amies.

It’s snowing outside to the delight of the neighbor’s kids, who have been reenacting musical numbers from _Frozen_ all morning. Grantaire doesn’t mind much; he’s dead to the world, sleeping in. He dreams of wintry sorcery.

The phone goes to voicemail twice before he picks it up. “‘This better be good.”

“Vacation celebration brunch,” Courfeyrac announces. “Wakey wakey, it’s time for pancakes.”

Grantaire rolls over with a groan. “How did you get this number?”

“You’ve got half an hour to get ready,” says Courfeyrac. “I sent Enjolras to pick you up.”

“Go fuck yourself, sir.”

“Happy Festivus, Grantaire.” The line cuts out on Courfeyrac’s laughter.

Grantaire buries his head under a pillow and counts out ten more indulgent horizontal minutes. Then he drags himself from the cozy nest of blankets straight into the shower. He always hates getting in, then never wants to emerge back into a waterless world. He makes the tap extra-hot. 

In the mirror afterwards, he looks well-rested, for once. He doesn’t remember a time when his eyes weren’t lined with dark shadows, but today they are not starkly cut. He’s experimenting with the idea of a beard, so he doesn’t shave, leaving his cheek stubbled. He brushes the taste of last night’s wine bottles from his mouth. 

He chooses a blue and white Happy Hanukkah sweater for religious variety, pulls on jeans and boots, and is packing up when the bell rings. “Door’s open,” calls Grantaire.

Enjolras is in a knee-length black wool coat with a red scarf knotted at the neck. The scarf contrasts with the gold of his hair, mints it brighter, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. There is melted snow on his nose. 

“Ready to go?” Enjolras says.

“Nearly.” Determined not to be annoyed today, determined to remain unmoved, Grantaire finishes depositing wrapped parcels into his tote. He swings the bag over his shoulder. 

There’s a slim package covered in frolicking reindeers in his hand. He grapples with it. “Since you’re here, you can have this now. Happy holidays.”

Enjolras blinks, looks caught off-guard. He stares down at the offering before slowly reaching for it. “But I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s fine,” says Grantaire, hasty. He shouldn’t have done this; should have waited to give him the present with the others. This is weird. “I mean, that’s how gift-giving works. In my family we’re pretty big on the tradition.”

“In mine, we’re not,” Enjolras volunteers, turning the present in his hands. “Thank you, Grantaire. Should I open it?”

“Yeah, sure,” shrugs Grantaire. “If you want. It’s Christmas Day already.”

With a glance at Grantaire, Enjolras unwraps. The gift is a slender volume, frail with age, printed on thin paper. Enjolras runs a finger along its spine, then leafs through the first pages hungrily. “Where did you find this?”

“I asked a rare bookseller in France to look. The internet is a wondrous place.” Grantaire focuses on staying cool under the intensity of Enjolras’ stare. His theme with presents this year is history, and he spent a while investigating his friends’ heritage with the help of a few friendly search engines. Enjolras has mentioned a distant ancestor who left behind radical philosophical writings. With his aristocratic name, the works weren’t difficult to trace, though locating an actual copy took many months. 

“My father told me this was lost to time,” says Enjolras, the book held tight in his hands. “You can’t know how much I -- this is -- Grantaire --”

“I’m really glad you like it,” says Grantaire, because he is, fuck, but he’s never been this close to Enjolras before, subject to the intensity of his focus. Never alone. He never expected a reaction like this. For a disorienting second, Grantaire has the bizarre impression that Enjolras is about to kiss him, before the world rights itself again. 

“We should be going,” says Enjolras, replacing the wrapping around the book with great hesitation, as though he would rather sit down and read it.

“Let’s,” says Grantaire, and follows him out to the car. In the yard the children are building a snowman.

They drive in silence while Grantaire DJs through various radio stations. Then Enjolras says, “I should’ve gotten you something.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I told you, that’s not how presents work. I’m a present-master.” Grantaire attempts a change in subject. “So I take it that you’re not going home. No bell-ringing in the Enjolras clan?”

“This is my home.” Enjolras steers them expertly through the streets. He is a precise driver, though given to sudden road rage. “I’m not going anywhere. What about you?”

“I cancelled because my sister did,” admits Grantaire. “No way I’m taking on the extended family without her. She fucked off to Italy, so I--”

Enjolras has them parked in the far corner of the diner’s lot. He kills the engine and then he turns to Grantaire, pulls him in by the collar and kisses him. Grantaire is pulled. 

Grantaire doesn’t understand what’s happening, even with Enjolras’ mouth on his. It’s too much to process. His lips part in surprise, but he doesn’t kiss back; he’s stunned and quite possibly hallucinating. 

It’s no fun kissing with no reaction. It’s the opposite of fun. Enjolras draws away as quickly as he moved forward, red to his ears. Then he gets out of the car and sets off for the diner at double-speed. He doesn’t look back.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” exclaims Grantaire. He feels mildly blasphemous because of the day. “Sorry, baby Jesus,” he tells the air. “But, dude, that was some messed-up shit.” 

He sits staring at his hands, tries to work through it. Enjolras kissed him unprovoked, and Grantaire turned to stone, and a day intended for sleeping late is upside down. He has precisely no idea what is going on. Unless they took a wrong left and entered the Twilight Zone.

Grantaire has been in love with Enjolras for as long as he can remember. He’s come to grips with it being unrequited: it’s kind of his thing. It’s his M.O. He’s never been shy about making his affections known through outrageous overtures. At this point, after years of friendship, it has softened to a dull ache, become an in-joke. 

Of course Courfeyrac would send Enjolras to pick him up; all of them rib him over it, save Enjolras, who tolerates his presence like he does the presence of global capitalism. Or so Grantaire has thought.

First, to see Enjolras so moved by the book. It’s true that time and energy and not a little money went in to the endeavor, but it was worth everything spent for the expression on Enjolras’ face when he saw it. Then, the expression on Enjolras’ face as he leaned toward Grantaire in the car. Decisive and desperate, a strange and combustive mix. 

Enjolras’ warm lips on Grantaire’s -- and Grantaire just _sat_ there --

“Jesus,” Grantaire repeats, and he scrambles out of the car. It’s snowing hard now and he gets a faceful of wind, which serves to wake him up at last. Holy shit. He’s an idiot, but it’s Christmas day, and even Grantaire isn’t unredeemable. 

He’s the last to arrive. If his friends, behind their innocent hails of greeting, wonder why he and Enjolras came in minutes apart, they’re too well-behaved to ask. 

Grantaire should take the seat Jehan’s saved him at the big round table. To sit with Jehan and Bahorel at the far side will mean a boisterous and convivial brunch, full of bottomless mimosas and extra orders of cheesy grits. 

Instead Grantaire raises his eyes, and spots the empty chair next to Enjolras; and with his head up he walks the gauntlet of all their gazing and sits down. Enjolras doesn’t look at him, but the tips of his ears are still pink.

Courfeyrac passes him a menu. “Joyous solstice,” he says. 

Conversation explodes in colorful fireworks from every direction. They’re all well-rested, and everyone is on vacation. The cheesy decorations adorning the diner cast a cheerful glow across the bustling restaurant. People are ordering laden plates and children are playing with brand new toys. The volume is turned up way past eleven.

Grantaire presses his knee against Enjolras’ knee.

Enjolras glances at him sharply, then away. He doesn’t move his leg, though. They sit like that while the waiters bring out coffee and bloody Marys. 

Every so often, Grantaire increases the pressure, until under the table they are sealed from thigh to ankle. Their faces reveal none of it, Grantaire thinks. The secret nature of the contact increases a thrill already brightly burning, since it is Enjolras beside him. 

Grantaire selects pumpkin walnut pancakes, and swallows down two parts water and coffee to every sip of bellini. He wants to be sober for this. He’s filled with the spirit of Christmas, or something. He’s full of shit, he knows. This is actually happening, though. Enjolras is warm against him under the table, and above it everyone he knows is laughing. Forgive him for wanting to break out the carols. 

The food arrives to a clamor, and everyone shares each others’ dishes; there’s a lot of grabbing and passing. There’s teasing and storytelling and pronouncements for the New Year made; Enjolras makes a few regarding club matters. While the dishes are collected, his hand slips between their bodies, and rests on Grantaire’s upper thigh.

Grantaire focuses on not leaping up or out of his skin; he drinks a lot of coffee. He sits with Enjolras’ hand on him a while, appreciating it, and when he can, he ghosts his hand over Enjolras’, on the pretense of adjusting his napkin. 

It’s possibly the best meal Grantaire has ever passed, though he can’t quite remember how the pancakes tasted. 

The table cleared, Grantaire distributes his presents, and receives some from the others. There is a happy shouting time of exclamations and heartfelt thanks. 

Enjolras has an excuse to take out the book, show it off, and start reading again, with the pirate flag that Feuilly gave him tucked around his shoulders like a cape.

Sometimes Enjolras’ hand slides over to Grantaire’s thigh. When their fingers tangle, Grantaire forgets the question Combeferre is putting to him. Next to him, Enjolras reads and smirks. 

It’s the best meal that Grantaire has ever passed. But when they stand to leave, presents piled high in arms and full of promises for New Years parties, Grantaire isn’t sure where to go.

“I’ll drive you back,” says Enjolras, folding the flag around the book for cushioning, then tucking the lot into his bag. “Are you ready?”

“Entirely,” says Grantaire, who has never been less prepared.

Their friends, bless them, let them leave without comment, though Cosette, by the coatrack, ingeniously offers Grantaire Enjolras’ coat, and Enjolras Grantaire’s. Their fingers brush as they make the exchange, and Cosette beams at them. 

Outside it’s still snowing. Snow has blanketed the walkway, muffles the sound of their boots. The car seems far away. Grantaire falls into step with Enjolras of the speedy stride. 

It’s hard to believe this upright figure was engaged in groping him under the table mere minutes before. He looks at Enjolras sideways, but Enjolras is looking at the car. They gain the vehicle, slide inside, and --

This time, when Enjolras kisses him, Grantaire responds. 

His mouth opens at once, warm and welcoming, and one hand dares to tangle in Enjolras’ hair. Grantaire kisses back with the fervor of years spent dreaming of this, only the truth of Enjolras is better. Enjolras tastes of coffee and the mint from the bowl at the diner, smells of pine and of the earth. Grantaire edges his tongue into Enjolras’ mouth, is met by Enjolras’ tongue, bold as the rest of him. Grantaire makes a delighted sound before they break apart.

They sit breathing, then Enjolras starts the engine and steers out onto the street. Joly and Bossuet go whizzing past in their tiny Smart Car, honking. 

Enjolras finds a smooth stretch of highway, then says, “Listen, Grantaire--”

“Could we not?”

“Pardon?”

“Could we maybe not, Enjolras. Whatever you’re about to say, turn it around, and let’s see how we can approach from the opposite direction.”

Enjolras’ hold on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. “The thing is,” he says, eyes on the road, “I’m not -- I’m not used to this sort of thing. I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing.”

Grantaire lets that settle over him, like a pirate flag cape. “You mean it?”

Enjolras is a dutiful driver, and doesn’t take his eyes from the road, but he nods. 

Grantaire says, “I mean, fuck, me too, man. I mean, maybe I have more experience than you, if that’s what we’re talking about? But when it comes to you --” He finds that he can’t stand it. “Christ, Enjolras, do you _feel_ this? Was that you back there in the diner, holding my hand? I won’t pretend like I wasn’t there, like I don’t--”

“Take a deep breath,” Enjolras suggests, rounding out into Grantaire’s driveway. “We were both there. It happened. It was real.” When he parks the car, they sit with only the illumination of the safety light overhead. “If it helps to hear, that was one of the more exhilarating meals of my life. If meals can be exhilarating.”

“So,” says Grantaire. They sit at an impasse in the car. Snow is gathering on the windshield. 

“As I say,” says Enjolras, selecting words with care. “My experience lacks.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, then, “ _oh_.”

Enjolras clears his throat. 

Grantaire says, “What if we go slow?”

Enjolras blinks, but doesn’t buckle, so Grantaire continues. “We both have some days cleared. I can pack a bag, and come sleep on the couch tonight, and we’ll figure it out in the morning.”

It’s wonderful to watch the whir of Enjolras’ brain so close. Enjolras raises his eyes to meet Grantaire’s, and he gives a quick nod. “I’d like to try that,” he says, and Grantaire tries not to gape. He hadn’t expected such fast agreement. Or any agreement, really. “Pack the bag.”

Grantaire tries not to run, though once he’s out of sight he takes the stairs to his apartment two at a time. He bursts through the door. He wrenches out his drawers, fetching his coolest outfits, his softest sleep-clothes. With his heartbeat beating out time, he rakes his bathroom accessories into a shopping bag. He adds condoms and lube to the mix as a prudent traveller would, but his heart is in his throat now. He packs his laptop, his tablet, his sketchbook, his drawing supplies, several books. The bag sags as he hauls it back out to the car under the snowfall.

Enjolras gets out to open the side door for Grantaire’s burden, a move so excellently chivalrous that Grantaire gives him a thumbs-up. He dumps the bag in and climbs back into the front seat. Belts up.

“Okay,” says Grantaire, “we’re good to go,” and then they’re driving to Christmas at Enjolras’.

Yeah, he’s wired up. Grantaire’s not sorry. He seeks through more radio stations, landing on seasonal hits. He turns up the volume. Enjolras cracks his window, to let a thread of fresh crisp air in. They drive companionably with Bing Crosby’s rasping voice.

Then Grantaire says, “Why now, though. I think I can ask. You’ve sidestepped me for three years, and tonight you played footsie with me.” Grantaire likes to replay it. Footsie occurred.

“I don’t suppose that you’ll accept ‘a holiday miracle,’” says Enjolras, forming air-quotes with his tone, since his hands stay on the wheel. 

“I’m open to all sorts of things,” says Grantaire, then refrains from kicking himself. “Sorry. I’ll try to be good. I just never pegged you for someone given over to the spirit of the season.”

“I haven’t celebrated Christmas since I was nine years old,” Enjolras says, manfully not rolling his eyes when Grantaire lets out a high-pitched gasp. “That was the year I learned to protest, and I found the holiday to be vacuous and unfairly distributed. I accepted no presents, and avoided the familial distractions. I wanted no part of _The Nutcracker_. No tedious parties with people congratulating themselves on their charity, two days a year, because of a corrupted fairytale.”

“You sound like you were a fun kid,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras laughs. “I got expelled from more schools than I can name for agitation. My parents were probably glad that I excused myself on holiday.”

Grantaire moves them deftly past the memory. “What about later years, though? I’ve seen you rocking terrible festive sweaters throughout the ages.” 

Their political club, begun as an interest group at work, has expanded considerably, and their mixed friend group by osmosis come to encompass the same people. They have been in each others’ lives a long time, but never like this. Intimacy is new to them. Yet it comes easily enough. They are known and unknown.

Enjolras shrugs, squints at the road as he makes the turn onto his block. They park in the driveway of the split-level house once shared with Combeferre, before Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s wedding. 

“Camouflage,” Enjolras says. “Sometimes it’s easier to participate. I don’t need to be a complete Scrooge.” 

“You aren’t a Scrooge,” Grantaire encourages. “You don’t have a hint of the miser about you. Now if you say you’re possessed by the ghost of Leninism past--”

“Come on,” says Enjolras, though he half-smiles. He points at the flurry outside the glass. “It’s supposed to snow all night.” He gets out, rounds the car, and shoulders Grantaire’s bag despite protests, then with a backwards glance at Grantaire leads the way inside. 

It’s neat and tidy as always, only the spread of papers across the kitchen table indicating that Enjolras wasn’t expecting to bring back a houseguest. They stomp their boots dry on the mat, then abandon them for socks. Grantaire is glad he wore his patterned with dreidels instead of holes. 

Enjolras turns on the lights and moves with restless mobility towards the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“Please.” Grantaire thinks he manages to keep the desperate yearning for a drink from his reply. This is weird; it’s fucking weird; he has no idea what to expect now that he’s here, and Enjolras is as confessedly clueless. They’re winging it totally blind. 

It’s only mid-afternoon and they’re day-drinking in Enjolras’ living room, and Grantaire has an overnight bag that Enjolras put down at the foot of the counter. Grantaire takes calming breaths through his nose and counts them out, yoga-style. He receives inspiration. “You want to watch a movie or something?”

“Sure.” Enjolras retrieves the beers and meets Grantaire at his broad leather couch. There’s a measured moment where they sit down, not too close but not far away either. Grantaire takes control of the remote. Enjolras sets the bottles on the coffeetable. 

Neither of them are watching the Christmas movie that springs into life on the flat-screen TV. Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire, slowly at first, then without pretense. “You’re the first person I’ve cared to kiss more than once,” says Enjolras. “Can I do it again?”

Grantaire nods, struck silent by the wording of the request. He watches as Enjolras tilts toward him, feels Enjolras’ hand come up to cup his cheek. 

Enjolras dives in, his mouth hot on Grantaire’s, his tongue twisty, and it’s as unbridled as the kisses in the car were careful. After minutes of this, Enjolras eases them back against the leather. Grantaire’s body yields, flattening under Enjolras’ beloved weight. Enjolras balances above Grantaire and kisses him and kisses him. 

Kissing can be as good as sex because it contains all the promise of the act and little of the risk. Kissing turns on the body, dusts off the brain, nourishes the soul. Kissing is the chicken soup of sex. Grantaire could stay like this all night or forever, curled up with Enjolras on the couch, licking into his mouth. On TV, a Santa Claus is in a wacky situation. Outside, the snow is falling fast.

There’s no denying that they’re turned on. They cling too closely to deny it. But Grantaire promised they’d go slow, and now he finds that there’s no hurry. He’s waited years to have a chance like this with Enjolras. 

There’s nothing so good as the opportunity to trail fingers down Enjolras’ back, or touch his soft, fragrant hair, or nip his pouting lower lip. Enjolras is there with him, above him and enthusiastic, responsive and present. Grantaire has never been kissed like this before. 

Grantaire has never kissed like this.

The movie ends, scrolling to credits, and another starts, and they’re still making out. Finally, breathing hard, hard bodies strained, they agree to take a break for beer. Now they sit without space between them on the couch. Enjolras’ arm drapes along the line of Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“You’re good at that,” says Enjolras. “I knew you’d be.”

“Right, all the times you thought about kissing me,” purrs Grantaire, too content to remember to be less of an asshole. 

“Yes.” Enjolras hesitates. “You’d be angry if you knew how long I’ve thought about doing so.” He frowns. “I’m angry. The ways I’ve put you off, avoided being near you, lost chances to know you better. I’ve tried to stay as far from you as I could. But today, with the book -- it was too much, and I’m tired. I’m tired of it, Grantaire. I can’t keep pretending. The truth is that I feel like any other person. I’m not a machine. I thought I had to be alone to be a leader, to remain unaffected. I was young when I made that decision. And you were so dangerous, so distracting.”

“I’ve mellowed out too, I suppose,” says Grantaire, trying for levity because his pulse is racing. Much of Enjolras’ extraordinary statement hurts, and is difficult to take in. He hears himself chiding. “You avoided me as recently as last week. We were supposed to go to the movies.” The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “Canceled last minute. But today was an epiphany?”

Enjolras nods shortly. “Please believe me. It was.” He pauses, as though the motion takes some getting used to, then reaches for Grantaire’s hand. “Forgive me, if you can, for my arrogance. For my pride, which ignored my desire, and all my kinder instincts. For my fear.” Enjolras’ blue eyes cloud over. “You should call my behavior abominable. It was that. I’ve kept myself apart, then taken advantage of your interest. Pulled you into extra projects, singled you out, put expectations on you at work I’ve asked of no one else. You should have me up with HR.”

“I was flattered,” Grantaire assures. “Scared of reviews, but chill with the workload. I liked that you trusted me with sensitive stuff.”

“Like I had to make an example of you,” says Enjolras, biting his lip, seeming not to hear. “Like I was trying to say, this is what happens if you believe in me too much.”

Grantaire snorts, amazed. “Here I thought you made an example of me because of my less-than-ideal office habits. The 4pm whiskey in my coffee, the speeches by the coffee machine, the billed hours spent commenting on blogs--”

Enjolras squeezes his hand. “These days, I rely on your steadiness,” he says, and Grantaire wonders if they’re really still talking about him. “In an emergency, I would call you first, trusting you to answer.”

“Holy wow,” says Grantaire. His heart is three times its normal size. His eyes are also big. “Did you just say that I’m your One Call? Okay, awesome. When you get arrested, I’ll record it, and we’ll make a hit podcast a la _Serial_ to exonerate your name, and--”

“You’re the only person who has said they love me, and hasn’t left me behind,” finishes Enjolras, soft. “I think sometimes I’m trying to make you go.”

“Enjolras, that’s --” Completely insane and achingly heart-breaking spring to mind. Grantaire gulps words, because he understands. He just hadn’t thought that Enjolras shared the same misgivings. The same nagging, unquenchable voice that whispers all the world is dust, and all that is loved will be lost, that loving is a weakness. 

Grantaire thought himself the cynic, but Enjolras, though an idealist, has never espoused optimism. They are alike, shadow and torch, bound together. They stand upon a field of the same disruptive thoughts, of the harsh narratives of what it means to be human. 

“So we’re clear,” says Grantaire, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I believe that now.” Enjolras looks down at their joined hands, slides his free hand over Grantaire’s. “When I came to pick you up, and you gave me the book, I thought about it. There you were, handing me something I’ve longed for as long as I can remember. I found that the sympathy extended and infused you.” His thumb runs across Grantaire’s pulse-point, must feel the beating of his heart. “I wanted all of you.”

“I said we’d go slowly, and I’m good with that,” reminds Grantaire, though it pains him. His head is spinning with new information. “You can have me any way you want, but for now, it’s enough for me to be here.”

Enjolras’ brow furrows. He seems relieved, yet remains on edge. “What would you be doing? If you were at home?”

“Drawing.” Grantaire lifts a shoulder. “I have some freelance projects I’ve been postponing until I have free time.” He gets the drift of why the question was posed, then says, “We can do that. Sit together and just do our own thing. I don’t think either of us want to pretend to watch this.” 

Enjolras’ eyes light up at the prospect. Grantaire hits mute on the holiday specials. They try it out.

They work side by side on the couch, lost to their own worlds. Enjolras files briefs and answers emails, and Grantaire draws elaborate lines for profit. They decide to keep the TV soundless but on, and gravity tugs them together, so that by the end of an hour they are propping each other up. They order Chinese food yawning.

Labor is abandoned to kissing until sustenance arrives. Until then, they partake of lips and necks and pliant bodies, pleased at their mutual progress. 

Dinner goes over without a hitch, with a few more beers and gripes over media representations in the ten o’clock news. 

Then Enjolras is saying, “You should come to bed.”

“The couch, I think, tonight,” says Grantaire, not able to meet his gaze on this one. Slow, dammit. This was supposed to unfurl slothlike.

“All right.” Enjolras kisses him, an affair of tongues and intense pressure. Then he lets Grantaire go and stands up. He indicates Grantaire’s bag, in the far reaches of the room, and clears his throat. 

“Take anything you need,” says Enjolras. “The linen closet is over there.” 

“Gotcha,” says Grantaire, holding up his sketchbook, as though he’s going to draw responsibly and not lie kicking on the couch. “Thanks. I appreciate...all of this, Enjolras.”

“Me too. Goodnight, Grantaire,” Enjolras bids, then vanishes.

He’s back forty-five minutes later on the dot. Grantaire looks up from a series of swirly nonsense.

“Come to bed,” says Enjolras. 

He’s in plaid red pajama pants, as though he’s yielded to the season at long last. His chest is bare. The hard cut of his abdomen refracts light so that he glistens. The overall appearance is wholly improper and utterly sinful, an apparition sent from a filthy-minded supreme being. Grantaire returns a silent thankful prayer.

“Say again?” says Grantaire. He’s entitled.

“Grantaire.” That’s even better. Enjolras crosses over to him, reaches for his hand. “I don’t want to sleep alone while you’re here.”

Enjolras’ bedroom is an inner sanctum. Grantaire finds it peaceful and uncluttered, filled with only the necessities of a functional life. Wide shelves of academic and law books, and a few scattered fictions. A bulletin board with invitations and pictures and some rally fliers -- some of the ones Grantaire drew, he sees with surprise. A lot of those. 

Enjolras is guiding him towards the bed. Grantaire sits down on the edge and slides out of his jeans. Slow or no, sleeping in jeans is awful. At least his boxers are simple and black, sans reindeers. Wearing the dreidel socks to sleep is festive enough. 

Enjolras climbs into bed on the other side, shirtless and spectacular, and Grantaire lifts the covers and gets in. A moment of creaking and smoothing, and then Enjolras’ arm steals around Grantaire’s waist. Their knees bend and interlock.

Into Grantaire’s shoulder, Enjolras breathes, “Is this okay?”

Grantaire has fallen deeply asleep. It’s a unique skill, head-to-pillow. Enjolras settles against him and follows after. The snow patterns against the glass until morning.

In the morning, snow is piled up high and still falling steadily. A storm has blown in overnight, and the alarm clock on the bedstead blinks 12:00 with lost power.

“What time do you think it is?” asks Grantaire, when it’s clear they’re both awake. The world outside the windowpanes is uniformly grey, betrays nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Enjolras. “We’re on vacation. Mandated.” He turns Grantaire onto his back, slithers down over Grantaire’s body. “Just because I’m not experienced doesn’t mean I’m not educated or interested. Let me show you what I know.”

Enjolras has clearly watched cocks being sucked on-screen; of this Grantaire is sure, then little else is clear. Enjolras tries to swallow all of him at once. He thinks better of it, and plies Grantaire with his tongue, which is glorious as anything. 

Learning, Enjolras fits Grantaire’s cock into his mouth inch by inch, taking direction, when Grantaire finds voice at last to give it. Enjolras experiments with him, and Grantaire attempts to stay patient, to accommodate the mind-altering act being performed. He’s meant to be the expert, but in the end he can only cling to Enjolras’ hair and rock his hips. Enjolras is too clever, has figured it all out, and his mouth finds mastery over Grantaire before the exercise is through.

Grantaire would pull back, but Enjolras keeps his lips around him, Enjolras’ throat works, he swallows him; and so Grantaire releases his ecstatic need with a shout, then stills to silence.

Grantaire’s afraid they’ve gone too fast, that they’ve ruined the fragile accord. But Enjolras smiles, and wipes pearlescent drops from his mouth. 

“So that’s why,” Enjolras says contentedly, and nuzzles into Grantaire’s shoulder, and they nap because time doesn’t matter.

They wake up sticky and stumble to the shower. They revive underneath the spray like parched plants. Grantaire is partial to showers once he’s in them, and he adores this one. He helps shampoo Enjolras’ hair, and gets his own shampooed. It’s so much better to let another person do it.

They soap each other up with Dr. Brunner’s, eliciting the strong fragrance of minty clean. They kiss under the water, and stay there until their fingertips prune. Enjolras has a stack of clean fluffy towels, like a responsible adult.

Once awakened to sex, once permitted an open range of access, Enjolras proves engaged and irrepressible. Enjolras approaches with a towel, and is the one to dry Grantaire off; his hands explore Grantaire’s body without shame. His hands admire. He remarks over Grantaire’s tattoos, revealed in the bathroom light. The closest is a conch shell sketched into Grantaire’s shoulder, and Enjolras ducks to trace the ink of it with his mouth. Grantaire shivers and inscribes this into his long-term memory.

Wearing towels in the kitchen, they make buttered toast and coffee. Grantaire turns to NPR on the radio and they hear that the storm has made a mess of the city, downing power lines and rendering roads impassable. Their phones are full of texts from their friends lamenting canceled flights and snowed-in automobiles. Courfeyrac has sent a group chat to all suggesting a sledding trip to the park. 

There’s some interest, but it’s still quite early. So after breakfast Grantaire carries the little radio back to bed and they lie down to the sounds of _This American Life_. Enjolras interjects to argue with the narrator, but overall it is the most peaceful and fulfilling morning of Grantaire’s existence.

He’s aware of the seriousness of such a feeling, let alone its declaration, so lying next to Enjolras, Grantaire says little. Enjolras talks on about a point made in the broadcast, then murmurs when Grantaire’s hand snakes beneath the towel to grasp his cock. 

“That doesn’t negate the argument,” says Enjolras, his lip bit, but he turns towards Grantaire, the towel slipping from its knot. His bare body surpasses holiday cheer to become a full-blown religious experience for Grantaire. Enjolras is so well-made he looks composed for gazing and not for touching. A statue carved of flesh in the mold of the divine.

Grantaire mostly keeps these reflections to himself. “You’re stunning,” he says, which isn’t the half of it. _I want to eat you alive_ sounds mega-creepy, even to himself. “I want to watch you come,” says Grantaire. 

Enjolras does the pink-ears thing, now decidedly adorable, and his cock stirs in Grantaire’s grip. Grantaire strokes without speed or urgency, like they have all the time they need. Like they do. It’s an unimaginable luxury to be so unhurried in bed, to start out trusting and familiar. He’s glad they waited to see the light of day. He wouldn’t trade the sight of Enjolras arrayed beside him for anything. 

Handjobs are usually best left to teenagers and massage parlors, but face-to-face with Enjolras on the bed, it’s almost unbearably erotic. Their eyes lock, and Grantaire’s hand spans Enjolras’ now fully hard cock, and he’s uncovering how best to handle Enjolras. He tests different holds, until he elicits a moan; then he starts to go faster. His favorite thing is the astonishing ability to make Enjolras writhe with the mere motion of his fingers, as though Grantaire is the most powerful wizard in the world. 

Enjolras circles his hips in time to the rise and fall of Grantaire’s fist. “Oh,” he says, “yes,” and he spends in force across his belly, wet heat on Grantaire’s knuckles. Grantaire pumps Enjolras dry, watching his eyes go shocky, then lets go of his cock. He trails his fingers through the slick, thumbing it into Enjolras’ skin. Enjolras shivers with reaction, turning to gooseflesh. 

“Whoa.” Enjolras curves an arm, and Grantaire relaxes against him. Grantaire wants to lick his fingers clean, but he’s not quite sure if they’re there yet. He dries them both off with the towel and casts it aside. Enjolras says, “It doesn’t feel like that when I’m alone.”

“Animal magnetism,” says Grantaire wisely. “We get an electrical charge when others touch us. Because of energies.” 

“The pseudoscience sounds legit.” Enjolras in the afterglow sounds sleepy and unguarded. 

Grantaire yawns also, inordinately pleased with the endeavor. No one can take the fact of jerking Enjolras to a groaning completion from him. It’s a proud accomplishment. He wants it in writing. “We should probably nap some more,” says Grantaire. It’s snowing again, and inadvisable to move, the radio says so.

By the time they deign to get out of bed, Courfeyrac has arranged the whole sledding party. There’s an invitation on social media to a chosen hill in the park, mention of hot chocolate with and without liquor, and a plea to bring one’s own downhill vehicle. Most of their friends have responded in the affirmative.

“What do you think?” asks Enjolras.

Grantaire is eating leftover Chinese food out of the carton at Enjolras’ kitchen counter. He’s wearing a towel. Quite frankly, he never wants to go anywhere ever again, or risk altering this scenario. This is working, they’re growing closer, but the risk of intrusion by the outside world looms large. What will they tell their friends, anyway, if they arrive and leave together? Is this a thing to declare?

“I’m not dying to go,” Grantaire admits, deciding to be honest -- he wants Enjolras to know what it means to be here. “But I think it might look weird if we didn’t.”

Enjolras looks at him, then nods, and says, “We can stop by, as a compromise. Say we’re on our way to the movies, so that we can’t stay long.”

That’s exactly Grantaire’s speed, but he blinks and takes a breath. “You’d tell them that?”

“Should we hide from them?” For a moment Grantaire thinks Enjolras is angry; then he sees that Enjolras’ eyes are bright with mischief. “Or else, tell them that we need to leave for sex? I’d sought a middle ground, but you are the more _experienced_ party, so.”

Grantaire’s jaw sags. “You keep surprising me,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck. “I should stop being so surprised by that.”

“Should we tell our friends we’re involved? I think they’ve been involved in it longer than we have. Several of them have plead your case before, and I used to pretend I was indifferent. Listen, Grantaire, if you want to transfer out of the team, if it’s a work thing, I understand. We’ll cross that bridge. Until then, I’d stay as discrete about seeing you as I would any colleague.” Enjolras shrugs, like he’s thought about it a lot -- like he obviously has. “That means everyone knows so that the gossip’s at a minimum, and we’re as boring as possible. Don’t you think?”

Grantaire tries to take this all in. We’re involved, says Enjolras, I’m seeing you, Enjolras says. We need to leave for sex.

Grantaire’s head is full of all the words, the planned-out logic. He tries not to look flummoxed. False modesty is unbecoming. To deny what Enjolras says he feels for Grantaire is to say that he is incorrect, invalid. Grantaire hopes against hope that he is correct, and this is not all a mad dream. So for once in his life he doesn’t deflect. “Yeah,” he tells Enjolras. “You’re right. That sounds good.”

Enjolras gives him a rare, unguarded smile, glad to have avoided an argument. They get dressed in layers against the cold, and bundle up with hats, scarves and gloves. The park is two miles away, and they decide to walk it rather than dig out the car. The roads were plowed early but the enduring snow has recovered everything in a haze of white. 

They walk and talk, lost to discussion that carries them over the snowbound streets. For sledding purposes, Enjolras has a breakfast tray under his arm, and Grantaire the plastic lid of a garbage bin. 

They trade holiday greetings with other adventurers and once Enjolras has them stop to help a bent older man shovel his walkway. When they round the corner afterwards, Grantaire kisses him for it.

They go a while holding gloved hands.

When they enter the park they aren’t holding hands, but they’re close enough together that conclusions might be drawn. They find it doesn’t matter, that worrying is for naught. They’re greeted with loud raucous love and many hugs when they reach the picnic table at the slope of the hill. 

There is a giant thermos full of hot chocolate, liquor in paper bags to mix it with, candy canes in red and white stripes strewn with Hanukkah gelt, and piles of elaborately decorated gingerbread cookies. Courfeyrac offers them over with names like “Passive Aggressive Bad Driver Snowperson” and “Angrily Aggressive Last-Minute Christmas Shopper Snowperson.”

Grantaire snaps a picture of the glorious sight with his phone before it is decimated. Bahorel mixes them up steaming chocolate with whiskey, and Grantaire breathes in the scent of nirvana. 

Enjolras hovers at his periphery, but they manage to mingle. By mutual accord they haven’t deployed the movie excuse yet. If they have to leave bed, their friends are at least the finest of diversions. They know they’re lucky in adoring the same people, in understanding the complex web of vibrant human life around them. 

Grantaire often drinks too much at gatherings, keen to be the life of the party and abandon his everyday anxieties, but today he’s here with Enjolras. His attention gets to dwell on that, and he doesn’t have anyone else to impress. He only drinks a few warming drinks, even after Eponine shows up with a brimming pot of mulled wine.

Instead, he sleds, racing Jehan up and down the hill. Later Joly, horrified by the improvised devices, lends Grantaire his Radio Flyer, and Grantaire has a proper go, like he hasn’t since he was a kid. He notices that Enjolras hasn’t made a run, and drags him from the crowd to cheers and up the hill.

“I’ve read _Ethan Frome_ , you know,” Enjolras is muttering, seeming more afraid of the sled than being carried off by Grantaire. “This is a bad idea.”

“It’s not. We’ll be fine.” They are, fitting together on the sled that Grantaire lays out. They’re not small, but they stay on. 

Grantaire guides them down, down, down, the wind whipping through their hair, and Enjolras lets out a happy shout just before they land at the bottom of the hill. A snowdrift banks them, and they lie breathing side by side.

“That was great,” says Enjolras. “Let’s go again.”

Grantaire hits him with a hidden snowball.

So is the Great Snowball Fight of the winter of ‘14 commenced. 

Sides are quickly chosen, regiments formed. Enjolras’s lieutenants are well-trained in following his commands, but Grantaire rallies the wily scrappers to his banner (“We’ll call ourselves The Wily Scrappers,” he tells his team). 

Enjolras, Marius, Cosette, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac facing Grantaire, Eponine, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Jehan is vicious and exacting battle for glory. Much of it is documented by Joly’s Instagram, as he pleads referee status due to recovery from a cold. 

No clear winner can be declared, and at last, laden with snow, Enjolras and Grantaire crawl out on their bellies and shake for a truce. More hot chocolate is had standing up, since the picnic table was upended for a fort. It isn’t clear who starts singing first, but soon everyone is arguing for their favorite song.

No one leaves until the sun goes down, but by then the sodden clothes and cold have set in, and goodbyes in rounds are made. Grantaire follows Enjolras out of the park. They walk with the sunset on their backs. 

Grantaire reaches for Enjolras’ hand, and has his fingers gripped. They stroll in silence after so much noise, sharing warmth.

At the house, Enjolras backsteps them straight from the door to his bedroom. They’re soaked through, and he goes about stripping Grantaire as though he’s at risk for pneumonia. 

Grantaire is bared, then helps free Enjolras from his layers. Icy water runs down their bodies from where snow snuck in. It’s too cold apart, so they cling together, and move onto the bed like that.

Enjolras straddles Grantaire, ducks low. This time, when he kisses Grantaire, it is with a sense of purpose, and also of tenderness. In the car he was inquisitive, testing; in bed hereafter he has been energetic and unexpectedly lush. Now he is determined, claiming Grantaire’s mouth with his own. He runs his tongue over Grantaire’s teeth.

“I want to fuck you,” Enjolras says, drawing back half an inch. “I haven’t done it before. I used to wonder what I wanted. Now I know.”

“We can do that,” says Grantaire, tilting up for another kiss, so that there’s no mistake about his enthusiasm. His body’s instant reaction makes it doubly clear. 

“I think we’ve waited long enough,” points out Enjolras, practical. “All of yesterday and today, and for three years.”

Grantaire moans. “Don’t remind me.”

“And for me, twenty-five,” Enjolras reminds. 

Grantaire wants to throw an arm across his face to shield it. He manages not to. “The pressure, man, the pressure. I’m supposed to be your first and also show you a good time--”

“You can rest assured the latter is already taken care of,” says Enjolras. “This day with you has been one of the finest I’ve ever had. Possibly the best ever,” adds Enjolras, his lips teasing a smile. “No pressure.”

“Aw, dude--”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras kisses him, then sits back, and his expression shades serious. “Tell me what you like.”

“I’m looking at it.” Grantaire is unabashed. Enjolras knows how he feels, and this isn't the time for restraint. “Everything you do drives me wild.” He reaches up, trails his fingertips across Enjolras’ chest, his flat nipples, his abs, the taper of his hips. They’re both rock-hard without much contact, which bodes well for the evening. 

Grantaire declaims, as he caresses Enjolras, “There aren’t many secrets to sex. The great mystery is that it’s not one. The actual acts are simple; it’s people who are complex. When my father gave me the talk he said, ‘Grantaire, never go to bed with someone you can’t laugh with.’ I was a snot-nosed teenager and didn’t understand the wisdom of that advice for a long time. The best sex is about being able to communicate. The ability to laugh is key, because sex is fucking ridiculous.” He grins, and shoves at Enjolras’ shoulder. “Let me up. I brought the fun supplies.”

And Enjolras laughs. “I’m not sure what that says about my alleged virtue.”

“It was a gamble,” acknowledges Grantaire, rolling from under him and pacing to his bag, relocated to the bedroom closet after breakfast. “I like to live life on the edge.”

Enjolras tugs him back into bed, and takes the lube in hand, and turns it over to read the small print on the back. Grantaire has to bite his tongue, because not all laughter in bed is desirable, and Enjolras is impossibly, predictably wonderful in the thoroughness of his character. Grantaire grins at him until it hurts.

“I can do it,” offers Grantaire, but Enjolras shakes his head and wets his fingers. “Okay,” says Grantaire. “Start with one and build your way up. I like this part, so don’t be shy. Only, it’s been a little--” 

It’s been a long while, as evidenced by the way Grantaire bites his lip when Enjolras pushes his finger in. He forces himself to relax, to breathe, to revel in the fact that this is for real happening for them. Enjolras’ finger edges further, smooth and slow, and Enjolras keeps looking from his action to Grantaire’s face.

“Tell me if I mess up,” says Enjolras. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Grantaire manages to assure. 

Enjolras messing up is not forthcoming. He hesitates on occasion, and asks sudden questions, primarily concerning Grantaire’s comfort level --

(“Now?”

“Still good.”

“And now?” 

“‘Tis a far, far better thing.”)

\-- and sometimes he is too ponderous, and sometimes too fast; but he is a brilliant student, and he studies Grantaire like a textbook. Grantaire spreads his legs and accommodates Enjolras’ fingers, and is read.

Inexperience doesn’t equal ineptness. Enjolras’ hands are unsure but steady, and he is illuminated by an intense focus, the excitement of having it all be new. Grantaire is aware of the profound trust being placed in him. The gift Enjolras is giving of himself, better than any other exchange. 

It’s too much to stand. Enjolras’ fingers discover a certain way to twist that is like being struck by lightning. Grantaire’s hips leave the bed. 

“Please,” says Grantaire, “be in me,” and Enjolras finds his gaze and doesn't waver. 

He nods agreement. “How should we?”

“It’s easier if I turn over,” Grantaire tells him.

“The challenge, then,” says Enjolras. He hitches Grantaire’s legs up around his waist, where they cinch. He takes his cock in hand and slicks it shiny, tosses the bottle. He teases Grantaire with the pressure, then eases inside. His face floods with reaction, and he stills.

“Oh, God,” exhales Grantaire. “No, the good God. Keep going.” 

Enjolras is slow, slow, sliding in by inches, unanticipated pleasure showing in the curl of his lip. His hold tightens on Grantaire’s hipbones and then he thrusts in all at once. He fills Grantaire with the huge, hard, hot length of him, buries himself completely in Grantaire; then holds as though he were made to be cradled thus. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras is saying, “Grantaire--”

Grantaire can hear little else but the slide of flesh on flesh as Enjolras begins to thrust. It’s a sort of music, how well they fit together, each playing his part to the utmost of his abilities. Their bodies are in harmony, and their minds of a mutual strain. The rhythm they find is rich and exhilarating. Fucking for the first time isn’t hard: it comes naturally. The amateur’s mistake is generally over-excitement. But Enjolras is masterful at staving off orgasm; he makes it past the ten-minute mark with no signs of tiring. Grantaire should’ve known he’d be unflagging.

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ cock far as he can, and clenches around him, and throws his head back to show his throat. His hair is staticky across the pillow and his cheek is dark with the start of the beard. He stares dreamily at the way the room sways to their motion. That’s when Enjolras figures out how to fuck him at just the right angle, so that every stroke is as good for Grantaire. Maybe better. 

“Can I touch you?” Enjolras asks, and yeah, Grantaire’s won the life lottery. Enjolras reaches between their bodies and fists Grantaire’s cock at the affirmative. “I think it'll be good to feel you come on my cock.”

Grantaire chokes on air, on good, old-fashioned air. “You aren’t supposed to know how to say stuff like that yet. I should do the dirty-talking, like -- oh, fuck, fuck me just like that. Yes, like that. Fuck, you feel -- you feel --”

“Just like that?”

They stretch out the time of it long as they can, push bodies past limits. Sweat trickles from Grantaire’s brow and he will be sore, he knows; he’s electric with the idea. His lips are kiss-stung, his skin scratchy from Enjolras’ stubble. Enjolras has one hand in Grantaire’s hair and the other wrapped around his cock. 

Grantaire goes off without warning, the gathering wave in him cresting with unknown force. He cries out and tightens up on Enjolras’ cock, feeling Enjolras in that moment as indivisible from the rest of his body. Enjolras drives into him, chasing the shockwaves that rock Grantaire. He bends to kiss Grantaire’s mouth.

At their peak he spills inside Grantaire, grasping and pinning Grantaire’s hand to the bed. Enjolras comes hard, and the last snap of his hips seems to undo him, so that he collapses over Grantaire, on him and in him and unmoving. He pants for breath. 

Grantaire is content to have a blanket made of Enjolras. After that, he’s pretty much perfectly content, full stop. He isn’t sure what to say, because English appears to him a difficult language to produce. Seeing how most of his brains are fucked out. His ears. Onto the pillow.

Words are a challenge.

He swallows instead, and squeezes Enjolras’ hand. They’re still joined everywhere.

“I don’t suppose I can ask you for a performance review,” Enjolras mutters into his neck.

Grantaire laughs. “Now, that’s one for HR.” He kisses the top of Enjolras’ sweaty head. Enjolras, with great effort, detaches himself from Grantaire and sprawls alongside him, using Grantaire for a body pillow. He throws an arm and a leg across Grantaire. One of the most delightful revelations of their time together is Enjolras’ propensity to cuddle. Some bed partners dislike sharing at all, or maintain a borderland of pillows, but Enjolras is handsy. Grantaire won’t pretend like he’s displeased. He’s a cuddler, too. “I had a really great time. I’m still having it.” 

“I’ll take that under advisement.” Enjolras lifts his head and sets it on Grantaire’s shoulder, slips in for the full body lock: knees tucked into Grantaire’s, arm curved over Grantaire’s chest, head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You’re unbelievable, Grantaire.”

“--ably good in bed?” Grantaire prompts, trying for light-hearted to spare his poor heart.

“I’ll never be able to figure you out, why you do or say the things you do. Why you balance creativity with destruction, productivity with disarray; nothing you do makes sense, including loving me. Someone like me should be the last place you look.”

“As you say,” says Grantaire, wrapping his arms around Enjolras, so that Enjolras is not the only one holding on, “I’m inconsistent.” He swallows, his throat constricted. “In that one aspect I haven’t changed, though. I do love you.”

Perhaps Enjolras needed to hear it said, after time and distance. Some last resistance drains from him, and he is soon asleep, nestled to the crook of Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire lies awake for a while thereafter, unable to repeat the trick from the night before. 

He hears the hiss from the windowpanes that means the snow is falling again. He tries to count snowflakes, but each one imagined is too lovely, and his fingers itch for pencils. He gets an idea, and falls asleep sketching it out in his mind’s eye, his fingers twirling a bit of Enjolras’ hair.

In the morning, with the familiar snowdrift gathered at Enjolras’ garden door, Grantaire moves soundlessly from bed. He pulls on pajama pants. Enjolras is unused to sharing, and instead of waking up, he yawns in his sleep and steals Grantaire’s pillow. He is beautiful in repose, with all the harsh worry-lines gone from his eyes, his hair a messy golden cascade. 

Grantaire has left beds behind and let himself out and been the better for it, he knows. This morning the thought doesn’t cross his mind. 

He indulges in being the only one allowed to see Enjolras like this. Feeling like a creature out of myth, he goes to pour a glass of orange juice. Then he sits down at the table with paper and all his supplies and gets to work.

By the time Enjolras emerges, the kitchen is covered. Grantaire has drawn every celebratory scene from every legend that he can recall, and his memory is broad. Biblical feasts mingle with wild pagan dancing, linked by the same trees. Saints hobnob with Gods and Goddess, Kings and Queens, and popular superhero characters, all wearing sacks, all emerging in a march from Grantaire’s feverish brain. All are espousing activist rhetoric in speech bubbles. 

To further decorate, Grantaire has hung sketches of holly and ivy, and set up detailed renderings of mistletoe in opportune places.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras in green boxers follows his concerned query, as though afraid to find him gone. Instead he discovers the artistic wonderland, and stops short. His relief that Grantaire is still present is clear, but he raises both eyebrows. “What are you--”

“Come join me,” says Grantaire, elbow-deep in pastels. “I’m creating decorations for a new holiday. Syncretizing the old stuff, you know. This day will be without economic incentive, and totally classless and genderless. See, everyone’s in a sack.”

Enjolras’ mouth trembles with mirth as he approaches. “I’m not sure we can get this one to catch on.”

“That’s okay,” says Grantaire. “It’s for us, mostly you. You don’t like Christmas, so I thought I’d give it a go.” He hands Enjolras a paper crown, on which a Santa’s hat is depicted aflame, and a tiny cartoon elf denounces the consumerist state.

Enjolras gives up and bursts out laughing. “A holiday for me.”

“Happy Enjolras day,” declares Grantaire, waving a pennant decrying unsafe labor conditions. 

Enjolras looks around at Grantaire’s creations. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.” But he sits next to Grantaire at the table, and he tries on the crown.

“Wait’ll you hear the traditional ballads,” says Grantaire. 

This time, when Enjolras goes to kiss him, Grantaire is waiting for it. He kisses first.

**Author's Note:**

> Come to me on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com). We'll cuddle.


End file.
